


Reconstructed

by ohmytheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Arya Stark must deal with living and growing up in King’s Landing after her mother’s marriage to Tywin Lannister. Things have changed indeed, especially her relationship with her new father. It's time to grow up, but that doesn't make life any less difficult or strange. (Set after the Red Wedding.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pack Survives

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but people enjoyed it so much that I kept getting more requests along this line so I figured I'd just make it a little series.

Arya prowled the hallways of the Red Keep with a stealth that was unknown to any of the gold cloaks. Every time one of them popped up with the intents of catching her, she would slip away from them with ease. Even with the dress that they had forced her into, she managed to escape all of them. The trick was running barefoot. The new septa that had been given to her upon her return to King’s Landing had nearly had a fit when she had realized that Arya had slipped out of her shoes, but there had been no way for that old hag to catch her. There were some old habits that she couldn’t be broken of.

As she scaled the outside walls, much like Bran had done at Winterfell before his fall, Arya's thoughts jumped all over the place. She needed to focus on where she was stepping, but she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. So much had happened in the past few months, so many things that it was difficult to wrap her head around them at times. Things had been much simpler in the road with the Brotherhood Without Banners, before the Mountain had come down on them suddenly in the night.

_At least some of them escaped,_ Arya thought. In the end, she had sacrificed herself for their lives. Upon finding the real Arya Stark alive, the Lannister men had given up hunting the outlaws in the woods. She had howled loudly and fought wildly enough to distract them all. Arya hopped to another ledge, Gendry’s horrified face crossing her mind. The stupid bull had tried to run back to save her, before Lem had grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled into the bush. She could still hear him screaming her name if she concentrated hard enough when looking into the flames.

"There she is!"

The shout startled Arya, making her wobble. She whipped her head around, catching sight of two gold cloaks in the window down the hall running in her direction. She had just started to really get into the groove of things too; she always did when she dwelled on how this had all started for her. “Seven hells,” she grumbled under her breath once she caught her balance again. She hurried along the ledges, not nearly as fast as them, but if she could get to that roof, they would lose track of her again.

She was nearly there too when a hand closed onto her braid. A yelp escaped her; and she nearly fell completely. “Gotcha!” one of the gold cloaks shouted in triumph as he began to pull her inside the castle.

"No!" Arya twisted around and kicked the gold cloak in the face hard. He grunted in pain and let go of her, stumbling back. She grabbed the window to steady herself before leaping to the next ledge and then the window. Her foot throbbed painfully since she’d kicked him barefoot and had hit part of his helm, but she ignored it as she jumped to the little roof. She was breathing heavily as she scrambled across the roof and then jumped to another window ledge. He stood there, trying to catch her breath and watching the gourds curse at her from across the yard. "Stupid heads," she muttered, turning to go to the next ledge.

Without warning, a hand tightly clasped around her arm; and she was yanked inside the castle. When her feet smacked against the stone ground, she yelped in pain again.

Arya started to struggle against her captor, demanding that he let go of her or her lady mother was going to hear about this, when a deep, calm voice said, “And I’m sure she would also agree that what I did was best. Running around those ledges like a wildling – I thought you were smarter than that.”

Immediately, Arya stilled and looked up to see that it was Tywin Lannister that had a hold of her. The moment she stopped fighting, his grip on her lessened and she was able to tear her arm out of his hand. “I was practicing,” was all she told him.

"Practicing what? Being a cat?" There was an amused lilt in his voice, but no smile on his face to match. One thing she had learned from the many times she had seen him was that Lord Tywin never smiled.

_Close enough,_ Arya thought to herself. She just shrugged her shoulders instead of saying anything out loud. He wouldn’t understand. He may have been more understanding and even indulging in her ways than most people, but even he wouldn’t be able to understand the things that Syrio had taught her.

Tywin shook his head at her. “Come, child; it is almost time for supper and you look a mess. We’re dining with everyone tonight.”

Of course she had run to the Tower of the Hand. She almost always seemed to do that when she was panicking, even without realizing it. Arya groaned as she followed him down the hallway. “ _Everyone_?” She looked up at him. “The king and…queens?”

Tywin gave her a look. “Yes, everyone, including His Grace, Queen Margaery, and the Queen Regent.” Arya turned her face and stuck out her tongue. If Gendry or Hot Pie were here, she would make some sort of joke, but it was just her and the Hand of the King. “Arya, I know that you do not like them, but being around people you don’t like is generally what life is about.”

There were people you didn’t like – and then there were people that you wished dead on a nightly basis.

When they were standing outside of her bedchambers, they stopped and Tywin turned to face her. “Now when your mother asks where you have been all day, what will you say?”

"Pretending to be a cat?"

Again, there was that threat of a smile, but it did not come. Arya thought she had seen him smile once, during the wedding when he had first laid eyes on his wife-to-be, but she couldn’t be sure of it and her mother wouldn’t say. “You will say that you were riding in town with me. You wanted to get out of the castle and also see what I did as Hand. Hence why you are late for supper: you had to get cleaned up.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “But I–”

"Or we could tell her that you were recklessly running around on the window ledges outside the castle and see what punishment she comes up with." The look on Tywin’s face was final, one that would’ve made her gulp if she was not a braver person. She nodded her head. "I thought so. We will actually do that tomorrow. You’re growing restless and avoiding Septa Raechel, I’ve heard. That was Cersei’s septa, you know."

"I don’t want her septa," Arya blurted.

Tywin looked at her carefully and then opened her door. “Perhaps it is a good thing you were on the road while Joffrey was king,” he said to himself as he pushed her inside. He was right though. Arya would’ve killed Joffrey herself had the Imp not done it before she had been dragged back to King’s Landing. To be honest, she didn’t mind Tommen. He was actually nice and even somewhat scared of her, though she didn’t really know why. All she ever did in front of him was curtsey badly, mutter “Your Grace” a lot, and sulk.

Her handmaidens seemed to appear at a snap of Tywin’s fingers, even as he shut the door. They managed to drag her to a tub, stripping her for the dirty dress and tossing her into the tepid water. They scrubbed her clean, not caring to be gentle with her as she was sure they had been with Sansa, but it didn’t bother her. Sometimes, the pain felt a little good, though she would never admit it out loud. Once clean, they put her in another dress, a Tully blue one this time. They never let her wear Stark colors anymore. She wouldn’t let them touch her hair though. She brushed that herself. It was just now reaching her shoulders. Gendry had said that she was starting to look like a little lady again, a little over a month ago. She’d punched him for that.

She wondered where he was as she meandered to where they would be supping. Normally, it was just her, her mother, and Lord Tywin, but every now and then they ate with everyone. They hoped it would make her more comfortable with everyone, but it just made her feel worse. She didn’t know how her mother could handle herself so well, but there were times when she could see the pain in her mother’s eyes. Those were the times when Arya wanted to kill everyone and hug her mother fiercely at the same time.

Just as Tywin had predicted, Arya was late for supper, the last one to arrive. There was an empty spot for her in between her mother and Lord Tywin. It was a small relief. She didn’t want to sit next to either of the queens. How Sansa had managed to survive all of this on her own, without their mother or anyone, was beyond Arya. She shuffled to the table and sat in her seat.

"How nice of you to join us, Arya," Queen Cersei said, a mocking smile on her pretty face. Arya was half in mind to throw a knife at her and make her ugly. "At least your sister was always prompt."

Arya gritted her teeth and turned to face the king. “My apologies for being late, Your Grace,” she said, ignoring the Queen Regent altogether. That would anger her enough.

The little king nearly choked on his peas. “It-it’s fine.”

"Lord Tywin says you went riding with him through the city today," her mother said. Arya looked up at her as a servant placed food in front of her. "Did you enjoy running around?"

_She knows._ Arya stabbed at her mashed potatoes. “It was fun getting out of the castle. Father never–” She caught herself quickly, but too late. Cersei rolled her eyes and Queen Margaery made a dainty cough. She could see the hurt in her mother’s eyes for the briefest of moments before it was replaced with interest. _Stupid head._ How had Sansa done this for so long? “I never knew that the Hand did so much work outside of the castle in the city.”

"Well of course, child," Cersei sighed, as if Arya was the stupidest girl she had ever met. "The Hand does more than work with the castle and city; he helps rule all of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arya chewed her food and gripped her fork tightly. She wanted to say how there hadn’t been any war when her father had been Hand and how they had all been happy. Everyone had been alive back then, not just her and her mother. She wanted to tell Cersei that she was the stupid one. All of a sudden, she felt a hand on hers and she looked up and saw her mother looking at her, a little smile on her face. Arya felt the anger and tension leave her body.

"Your name day is coming up, is it not?" Margaery brought up.

"Yeah." Arya looked up from her food, noticing that all eyes were on her. "I mean, yes, Your Grace. I’ll be ten and two."

"How delightful." When Margaery smiled, she was so pretty, but Arya was sure that there were plenty of other things hidden behind that smile. "Have you thought about what you might want?"

_My family, Nymeria, Winterfell, my mother’s freedom, Needle, all of you dead._ None of those were appropriate to say, so Arya settled for, “A horse of my own, maybe. I liked riding back…back when I was younger.” She hated having to watch everything she said; she wasn’t meant for this kind of life at all. Living on the road with the Brotherhood and Gendry had been easier.

"You’re a stronger rider than most girls your age," Tywin added as an afterthought. Her father had said that it was in her blood – that her Aunt Lyanna had been the best rider he’d ever seen and she looked just like Aunt Lyanna.

"I know what we could get her," Cersei said, that venomous smile back on her face. "We could fix that surname of hers. Catelyn is a Lannister in name now, thanks to your marriage, Father, why not–?"

Before Arya could even jump to protest, her mother had let go of her hand and was on her feet. “Don’t you dare insult my daughter like that.” Arya had never heard her mother sound so cold or angry before. Catelyn Stark ( _no, it’s Lannister now_ ) was always a good and proper lady, but she looked close to smacking the queen right in the face. “Feel free to make jabs at me all you like when your father is not around – I know how you need to make yourself feel powerful when you lack true power – but do not presume to think you can act like this towards my Arya.”

"The Stark name is rotten and dangerous these days. I only want the safety for my good sister."

_You’re not my sister!_ Arya wanted to scream, but the look that Tywin gave her made her bite her lip.

"Arya is a Stark – and she will stay a Stark until she marries or changes her mind otherwise. Besides, nothing could be more rotten than you." Catelyn threw her napkin onto her plate. "It appears as if I’ve lost my appetite. I’m retiring to my chambers."

And so her mother swept out of the room, leaving everyone shocked. That wasn’t how a proper lady acted and talked to the queen. Cersei fumed in her seat while Margaery comforted King Tommen, who looked confused about what had just happened. Arya went to look at Tywin’s reaction, but he was already out of his chair and following his lady wife out the door. That left Arya with the queens and king.

"I’m leaving now," Arya said to no one in particular as she jumped out of her chair. She hesitated and snatched a roll before bounding out of the room. Who cared if it was rude? She headed in the direction of her mother’s bedchambers when she began to hear voices. She rounded a corner, spotting her mother and Lord Tywin together, and jerked back so that she remained out of sight but could still hear them. Holding onto the roll with both hands, she slid down the wall to sit and listened to them talk.

"This place isn’t good for her," her mother was saying. "We had hoped that being here the first time would help straighten her out, but… It’s only made things worse."

"Not everyone is meant for the court," Tywin told her, "but the girl is strong and smart. She’ll adjust with time."

"If she adjusts to this place, she won’t be Arya anymore," her mother said. Arya closed her eyes and listened as her mother ran her fingers through her red hair. It had begun to dull, with a few grey hairs here and there, but it was still beautiful. She wore it like a Southerner now, as Sansa had done. "Maybe we could send her somewhere to be fostered, someone you trust. There is my sister in the Vale. Now that she and Petyr are married, she is tied to the throne…"

_No!_ As much as Arya hated King’s Landing and all the stupid people in it, she hated the idea of leaving her mother even more. It made her feel like a little baby, but she didn’t want to be separated from her mother again.

"Do you honestly believe Arya will want to leave you behind?" Tywin asked, speaking the very thoughts on Arya’s mind. "After all she went through to be with you again?"

Catelyn sighed. “No, and I don’t want to abandon her again.” Arya wanted to jump up and run to her mother to hug her. She hated hearing her mother sound so sad. “I just…I worry about her. She is all I have left.”

"Catelyn," Tywin said, making Arya peer around the corner. She had never heard him call her mother by simply her name, only by proper titles. What she saw startled her: Tywin had pulled Catelyn into his arms, holding her as Arya’s father had once done all those years ago in Winterfell. "I promise you that no harm will befall the girl. Believe it or not, but Cersei was the same way."

Arya frowned at that. _I’m not like that evil queen._

"Though she reminds me of Jaime at that age more, strangely enough," Tywin continued. Arya mused on that. Being compared to the Kingslayer could be just as bad, but he was great with a sword and let her slip out of the castle when he could have easily caught her.

"She does like her swords," Catelyn pointed out. Arya cringed. She thought that she’d been hiding her practice with swords well in the godswood, but it appeared as if Catelyn knew about that as well.

"Then maybe I will get her a sword for her name day, if only to help her feel at more ease. She has been through much. It will make her feel more in control." Tywin was right, no matter how much Arya wanted to deny it. She missed the security having Needle at her side had given her. "But I promise you, Catelyn; I will protect your daughter. When I said the vows, I promised to protect not only you, but her as well."

Arya slipped away after that, unsure of what to make of Lord Tywin’s words or the way he had been holding Lady Catelyn. So many strange and confusing things had gone on in the past month: from her capture to news about her brother Robb’s death to her mother’s wedding to Tywin Lannister to this. Sometimes Arya didn’t know how to make sense of any of it.

When she crawled into bed that night, she couldn’t help but wish that her father was here to comfort her; that Sansa was here so they could curl up in bed together like they’d done when they were really little; that Gendry was here to tell her that she was being the stupid one now and make her smile. Some time later, she heard her door open and felt someone sit on her bed. When she peered out of one eye, she saw that it was her mother.

Arya reached out blindly in the dark and grabbed her mother’s hand. “Mother?” she whispered.

"Yes?"

"I don’t need Lord Tywin," Arya said. "I can protect myself. I’ll protect us both."

Her mother looked at her; and even in the dark, Arya could sense the sad smile on her mother’s tired face. “Oh, Arya…”

 

 

 


	2. Seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya learns a valuable lesson from Tywin.

Arya had never ridden a more beautiful or wonderful horse before. The sand steed from Dorne was a sandy brown color with a blonde mane; it was lither than large and bulky like most horses she’d seen, so that it could gallop faster and longer. _It’s perfect for me,_ she couldn’t help but think as she leaned down to run her fingers through its coarse hair. Compared to all the other horses, it was small, not yet fully grown, but she knew in her heart that with the proper training and care, it would be the best horse in all of King’s Landing, maybe even Westeros.

She was so captivated with the horse that she did not notice another person riding up next to her. “Do you like her?” a deep voice came about.

Swinging her eyes around and sitting up straight, Arya caught sight of Lord Tywin Lannister atop a taller, white horse. “Yeah – I mean – yes, my lord, thank you.” Seven hells, she was still struggling with this living situation months later. How had Sansa managed to survive for so long alone with these people? It was like one moment they were feeding you and the next smacking the food right out of your hands. Lord Tywin was a bad man and she wanted him dead – but then he gave her this beautiful horse for her name day. It was confusing.

“Have you figured out a name for her?”

Arya bit her lip. “I was thinking…Visenya.”

“A female warrior’s name.”

“I named my direwolf after Queen Nymeria of Dorne,” she told him without thinking. As soon as the words escaped her, there was a sharp ache deep in her chest, like there was a hole there. Tywin would not understand that kind of pain – no one here could, not even her mother strangely enough – and so she shoved it away. She buried her fingers in the horse’s mane and glanced down, wishing she could be alone again. That was when she felt the happiest (and least confused) here.

“Would you like to go for a ride through the city with me?” Tywin asked. Her eyes jumped to him quickly. “I need to check on the construction of the king’s new ships.”

“I thought they were nearly complete,” Arya exclaimed. When Tywin gave her a look telling her that he was curious as to how she’d found that out, she shut her mouth. Instead of telling him that she’d heard it from a kitchen girl who’d heard it from her brother who was sleeping with a whore that had slept with the new Master of Ships, Arya merely shrugged her shoulders. No one noticed her when she was creeping in the shadows.

There was a ghost of a proud look on his face. “That’s what was said, but I believe a…surprise check is in order to determine the truth.” Arya smiled a little at that. It was like a trick. “People can lie to me, even if they are scared of me, perhaps because of it, but my eyes cannot.”

Her thoughts immediately shifted to Syrio, telling her to _see_. She thought that now as she looked at the Lord of Casterly Rock. It was hard to see him though when he constantly seemed to change on her. Only her mother seemed capable of being able to understand and see him; and even then, Arya didn’t know how her mother did.

“I want to go,” Arya suddenly decided. It would be nice to get out of the Red Keep besides.

Tywin nodded and then forced his horse to trot away while barking out a few orders. She continued to pet her horse, trying not to think about Nymeria and Syrio anymore, until she saw Tywin look back at her and she knew that it was time to leave. Somehow, instinctively, the horse knew how to follow Arya’s lead, trailing after Tywin’s horse. She smiled to herself, thinking back to all the times she’d raced Jon back to Winterfell; she’d almost always beat him by the time she turned eight. He’d be flustered yet laughing and swoop her off her horse, telling her how fast she was.

“You ride very well,” Tywin said, as if sensing her thoughts.

“I’ve been riding as far as I can remember,” Arya explained, her thoughts further and farther away from this place. She glanced at him, but only for a moment before looking away again. “My father, he…”

She couldn’t go on any further though. Talking about her old life, about her father, about the past with Tywin Lannister felt like a betrayal of everything she had once held dear. All of those things were dead and gone forever thanks to this man and his family. This new, strange life had replaced her old one; and she was never getting it back. Tywin could not take Eddard Stark’s place in Arya’s heart, but she could not deny that she sometimes yearned for the same interactions with Tywin as she once had with her father.

 _I don’t need him to be proud of him,_ she told herself furiously, but as she gripped the reigns tightly, she knew that was a lie.

“I taught Cersei and Jaime at a young age as well,” Tywin said, continuing as if Arya had not fallen away into a brooding silence. “Cersei learned faster. Jaime always preferred to be on foot, so he could be more sure of his sword, but Cersei wanted to be swift and [travel](http://ohmytheon.tumblr.com/post/33252467550/seeing-arya-and-tywin).”

“I’ve always liked traveling,” Arya said quietly, more or less to herself. More than anything, she wanted to go all the way to the Wall, so she could see Jon again. She wanted to hug him and have him muse her hair and call him “brother” and everything. She wanted him to give her a tour of the Wall that protected the North and keep her there in the cold and never let her go. But she knew that neither Lord Tywin nor her mother would allow it. Maybe she could [travel](http://ohmytheon.tumblr.com/post/33252467550/seeing-arya-and-tywin) to Dorne on Visenya if they ever went to visit Princess Myrcella. Visenya might like going back home.

Tywin looked at her sideways. “Perhaps one day we can.” Arya looked up at him curiously, hopefully. “I could take you and your mother to Casterly Rock and you could tour Lannisport.”

“That’s where Uncle Edmure is being held,” she blurted out, immediately turning red.

He just nodded his head though. “This is true. Your mother would be very pleased to see him, yes?”

“I’ve never met him, but she won’t ever talk about him,” Arya replied, somewhat edgily. “She misses him.”

“She talks of no one outside of her life here,” Tywin mused out loud. Arya just nodded her head to herself. Whenever she tried to ask her mother about her uncle, her mother would simply change the subject. It hurt sometimes, but Arya knew that it was done out of self-defense.

Arya gnawed on her bottom lip. “It hurts too much to talk about some things.”

“You do not talk much either,” Tywin said, giving her a careful look. She turned her face away from him. “The septa says you almost never speak during lessons; and you aren’t making any friends with any of the other highborn girls.”

“They’re stupid,”Arya mumbled.

“They were your sister Sansa’s friends.”

“No they weren’t,” Arya snapped, glaring up at him. “They weren’t her friends at all. They’re all fake, stupid girls and all they do is talk about boys and when they’re going to be married and then told on Sansa to the Queen. That’s not what friends do.” She thought of Gendry, who had known who she was, who had kept her secret locked inside of him even though he could’ve gotten more gold than he’d ever had before by turning her in. “Friends don’t tell on each other.”

Tywin arched an eyebrow. “How do you know that they spied on your sister for the Queen?”

“I spent time with them once because I knew it would make Mother happy,” Arya grumbled, feeling upset just thinking about that day. She hated those girls. They were nothing like Gendry or Hot Pie, both of whom had been better friends. They weren’t like Jon, who had given her Needle, or even Micah the butcher’s son, who had played sword fighting with her and had died for it. “They asked me all sorts of questions and giggled, like I was stupid or a joke; and then the next day the Queen knew everything that I’d told them.” She frowned. “You can’t trust anyone here. I couldn’t then and I can’t now.”

For a while, neither of them said anything and Tywin just stared her down. She almost couldn’t stand it, so she kept her eyes on the dirt road ahead of them. People weaved on and off the crowded market street. Any one of these people could’ve been a spy for someone in the Red Keep. The thought was disheartening. _You shouldn’t be talking to him so much,_ she told herself, but it was so difficult not to when she felt so alone. King’s Landing could never be a home to her, even with her mother here now.

“You’re not happy here,” Tywin stated. Arya did not bother looking at him or shaking her head. He knew that he was right. It was plainly written on her face and everything she did. “Your mother does not like it here either, though she’s adjusted better than you. She thinks it stifling – and she is right. I can see this place weighing down on you.” He couldn’t have been more right about that. There were days when she seemed to only be able to get up because of how angry she was. “I was told that last time you were here, you had a dancing master?”

Arya smiled sadly. “Syrio Forel. He-he never judged me for who I wasn’t.” He taught her how to be proud of who she was, how to see, how to feel, how to listen, how to be brave and fight. He had died protecting her; and she’d never gotten the chance to thank him properly.

“I was thinking that perhaps you could restart your dancing lessons,” Tywin said. Arya gave him an alarmed look, her eyes wide and mouth opened slightly. He’d probably misunderstood that bit of knowledge, just like everyone else had. Sansa had thought that she was learning how to girly dance. Arya did not want to get stuck in dancing lessons since she couldn’t just refuse Lord Tywin’s offer. “Obviously I cannot give you the same instructor, so it will take some time finding you a new one.”

“There are no good ones here.” Maybe, if she made it seem like too much trouble, he’d give up and she wouldn’t have to learn how to dance.

“No, not in King’s Landing, perhaps not even in Westeros,” Tywin replied as he brought his horse to a stop, “but in the Free Cities…”

Arya’s eyes lit up in a way that hadn’t happened since she’d first laid eyes on her mother again in the Red Keep. “For true?”

“You do remind me of Cersei,” Tywin told her, gazing at the ships being built in the harbor. “She wanted a sword like Jaime, but she was destined for gowns and a crown. I took those dreams away from her and gave her new ones, but I can tell that I cannot do that with you. It will only make you rebel more. When I realized that, I knew that despite your sex, you are more like Jaime. You have skills that should be nurtured, not squandered away.”

Arya did not want to hope, but she couldn’t stop herself. This was the first time since coming back that she felt like she could survive here. It would be ironic that the man she wanted dead would be the one to give her the means to make it so, but she felt absurdly thankful to him. This gift would be even greater than her new horse. It was more than she could ever dare to hope for here. Maybe Lord Tywin saw her for who she was as well, and not who everyone thought she was supposed to be.

Smiling to herself, she looked out to the ships and pointed. “The ships – they look only half-done.”

“Then you are seeing what I am seeing,” Tywin said, “a _lie_.” He was certainly not pleased and she knew that someone would be in trouble, but she did not feel threatened by him herself. “Shall we pay the Master of Ships a visit?”

“Yes,”Arya replied immediately, feeling excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside of her.

“Follow me and watch carefully,” Tywin told her as he smoothly swung off his horse. “This will be your first lesson from me.”

 


	3. The Caged Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya knows that she must deal with the consequences of growing up, but she still feels a sense of betrayal about Tywin and Catelyn finding her a betrothed.

“She won’t settle easily.”

“Of course not. She has spent nearly five years in King’s Landing and she is still as wild as the North.”

“Winter has always been in her bones.”

“The North? Winter? No, it’s more like fire is in her blood. I thought being here would tame her, but she grows wilder with each year. Did you hear what she did to that Frey boy? She broke his nose. He said one thing to her – and she bloodied and _broke his nose_.”

“In her defense, Starks tend to not like Freys on principle.”

“She is six and ten, Catelyn, not a child; she cannot act like this anymore, like some wild direwolf. Your older daughter went quite happily with her husband. I do not understand how this one is so…out of control. Is there a drop of her in you?”

 

Clenching her fists at her side, Arya pulled away from the door of her step-father’s bedchamber and stood up. She glowered at the door furiously, as if it might burn up if she concentrated enough anger towards it, and then rushed away. A part of her felt inclined to go back to her own bedroom, climb into bed, hide under a multitude of blankets, and then scream into her pillows. A little part of her always felt safe when she was in her bedroom, even though she knew that she was surrounded by the enemy and had been for years, ever since she was ten.

Instead she brushed past her bedroom, ignoring the lull of false security that it held, and walked through the castle. A handmaiden tried to stop her, but she ignored the girl. A gold cloak almost bumped into her, but she didn’t even snap at him. By the time she was near the doors to go outside, she was nearly running. She would have been too had she not been in some tight, pretty dress that seemed intent on suffocating her. Once she was outside, the cold air hit her hard, but she ignored it. Winter had come to King’s Landing fully a year ago and it had not let go since. She preferred it this way. The cold and snow reminded her of home, her true home, back in the North, back at Winterfell.

After nearly an hour of prowling the grounds, the cold began to sink its claws into her painfully. She wasn’t dressed nearly well enough for the outdoors, but she didn’t care. Anger had filled her up so much that she had felt like she was on fire. She hated it here, hated this place, hated the people. She hated the way her mother had to defer to her husband. She hated the secret smiles all the women here wore, like they were somehow better than her even though she was above them in status. More than anything, she hated how alone she felt. She was the last Stark left here and perhaps the one least equipped to be here at all. Sansa had been good at playing the people here whereas she always seemed to be tripping over herself, both physically and mentally.

Sweeping away snow from a bench in the lonely, little godswood, she sat down and huddled there, folding her arms across her growing chest and glaring at the weirwood tree. It had no place here, just like her. _The wilderness has no place in the South,_ she thought sourly to herself.

Her step-father was wrong, of course. He understood her on some level, more than she liked to admit, but still less than her siblings or her mother. She hadn’t tried to fit in the first time she had come here all those years ago with her father. She had been too immature then, too selfish. When she had been brought back for the second time and tossed into her mother’s arms, she had truly tried to change her ways, if only because she felt like she’d been given some sort of second chance. She was too afraid to lose her mother, sister, or brothers again. She’d lost her father and she’d lost Robb. She’d even lost Gendry, who had vanished into some little town in the Riverlands somewhere.

But no amount of watching her mother or Sansa, no amount of trying to smile and be polite and learn all her courtesies and dancing, no amount of fear could change the way that she felt in her heart. This was not her home; this was not who she was. She did her best to imitate Sansa, but she only proved to be awful at everything, to the point where it had begun to drive her mad. She was trying so hard to be so fake and yet she continued to fail; and she would lie in bed, grinding her teeth, praying to the gods, and she grew angry and restless at her own inabilities and the demands everyone made and the expectations she continued to fail. Until one day she just gave up and threatened to slit the throat of the first court girl that made a comment on her lack of dancing skills.

Things had been relatively fine until her siblings had started to vanish again. First it was Bran, then Rickon, sent back to Winterfell. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ The Hand had seen the wisdom in her mother’s words. Lord Bolton had apparently been promised Winterfell, but they could not just give it up nor take it away from House Stark, as Riverrun had been taken from her mother’s family. The North was different. It would not bow to a traitor, as Lord Bolton surely was. And the idea of marrying Arya to Lord Bolton’s heir had been shot down so hard by her mother that it had startled everyone. Once Bran had been deemed old enough, he was sent there. It had been painfully obvious that Rickon would not do well in the South and so he went too.

With the girls though, it was different. Arya was embarrassed to admit how much she had clung to her older sister. Sansa had changed greatly since they had last seen each other. She had been through her own set of horrors in King’s Landing and the Eyrie. All of her illusions and dreams had been shattered. All those times Arya had hated her perfect sister could not compare to how much she loved her sister now. But Sansa was gone. She had been married to Willas Tyrell, the heir of Highgarden, in order to bind House Tyrell and House Stark, alongside House Lannister. Arya had been happy for her sister, if only because Willas actually seemed to be a decent person in a sea of monsters. Except now she was alone. Her sister had been living in the Reach for a year now and Arya was by her lonesome.

“Are you purposely trying to get yourself sick, child?”

Arya jerked herself out of her thoughts and swiveled around to find Lord Tywin Lannister, her mother’s husband, standing under the archway. He was dressed properly for the weather, wearing a heavy, black cloak. She glanced down at herself, noting the thin cloak that she had on and a pair of gloves, nothing else. It was only then did she realize just how freezing she was.

“I was…praying,” she mumbled.

“What did your septa tell you about mumbling?” Lord Tywin asked her.

She rolled her eyes. “Ladies don’t mumble; they speak clearly and properly.”

“And respectfully,” Tywin added.

Arya glanced at him briefly and then turned away, shrugging her shoulders. Normally she wasn’t so dismissive of her step-father, but she was awfully tired of pretending. Things had become especially terse between them once she’d found out that he was searching for a match for her. She was six and ten – it would only be a matter of time before she was married off – but she had allowed herself to grow comfortable with the way Lord Tywin treated her. Of course he expected her to behave like a proper lady in front of others, but he also indulged her every now and then. She would not have survived here without that.

Without warning, warmth enveloped her as the black cloak was draped over her shoulders. She immediately felt warmer, though she did not want to admit it. Lord Tywin sat down next to her on the bench, looking at the weirwood tree before them. She doubted he ever came to this place, save for when he needed to find her for some reason or another. He always seemed to know when she was here. She always came here when she felt the weight of this place and everyone in it was crushing her.

“You know I have to do this.”

She couldn’t stop herself. She bit her lip. “I know.” Her eyes went to his. “But I will die before I marry any Frey.”

If Lord Tywin ever smiled, he would have then. “I know that – and I would never have you marry one.” She gave him a questioning look. “The Freys are a despicable, lowly lot. They’re good to have around to do dirty work, but nothing more. I merely allowed the boy to come on pretense, for show, but you are far too above that.”

“Oh.” An embarrassed look flitted across Arya’s face. She hadn’t even thought of that. “I just thought… Since the late Lord Frey helped you…”

“That you were payment?”

Arya didn’t want to say it, so she nodded her head.

“Did your mother ever tell you that you had actually once been promised to a Frey?” Tywin asked. Arya immediately shook her head. The idea of ever having been even tied for a Frey for a moment was a sickening one. Some days, it was hard enough for her to even think that she was tied to Lannisters through the marriage her mother had been coerced into. “In order to cross the bridge that the Freys owned, Robb was promised to one of Frey’s daughters.” A promise that he broke, Arya knew. _Always keep your promises,_ her mother had told her one night when she’d been particularly tired and sad. “And you were also promised to one of his sons or grandsons.”

“I would never have gone through with it,” Arya told him fiercely.

“I’ve no doubt you would have fought and argued should it have come to it,” Tywin said, “but it was not your choice.”

“It’s my life!” Arya exclaimed, getting more upset by the moment. Normally, Lord Tywin had a strange way of calming her down, or at least making her feel somewhat complacent. She reminded him of his twins when they had been young: Cersei, who had wanted nothing more than to be the son and heir that her father had wanted, and Jaime who had been strong and obedient yet always somehow wrong and off. “Just because I am a girl does not mean that everyone should tell me what to do, who I will marry, how I will dress…” She wiped at her eyes, hoping against hope that no tears would come out. She knew how he disliked weeping or any sort of tears. They were a sign of weakness and she was _not_ weak. “It’s not fair. I’m not… I’m not good at this.”

“Why do you think it is taking me so long in finding you a match?”

“Because I’m difficult and I scare away every boy.” Arya huddled underneath the cloak, willing it to swallow her whole. She never felt more like a failure than when she was paired with potential suitors. She always knew when they were, because of the way people in the court would titter. And she would try so hard to be good, but by the third day she would be restless and moody and the boy would say something stupid and she would already feel caged. The wild had no place behind a cage.

Tywin sighed. “You are difficult, yes, and there are days when you frustrate me endlessly. I used to think I could just send you away one day – find a good match that would elevate our status and off you would go, as many men do their daughters.” Arya snorted, knowing full well how unlady-like that was. She didn’t care though. It was just the two of them. He could berate her if he liked. “Now that the time has come, I have found that I cannot do that so easily.” She glanced at him. “It was easy with Cersei. She wanted to be a queen. Robert Baratheon was not the man she had dreamed about, I knew, but he was a king. I knew what he would be like and I knew she would be unhappy in the end, but at first, it was what she wanted. She wanted to be the queen of Westeros. You’re not so simple. You want something that most women don’t think about.”

“Freedom,” Arya said quietly, almost to herself. “I want freedom.”

“Whether you realize it or not, no one is free, not even me,” Tywin told her. “I am tied by the duties I have to my House, my father before me, and my family. I had tied by Casterly Rock and the Iron Throne and the responsibilities I hold to the kingdom. And now you are tied to them as well. You will marry the boy that I choose for you, but I will not force you to marry someone that will hold you back. What good would that do to further us? A caged wolf will only bite. And I’ve seen you bite. It’s not pretty. I need you to understand why I am doing this though and to hold yourself in a better manner.”

Arya nodded her head. It was not exactly what she wanted to hear, but it was something. She knew that more suitors would come and she knew that she would probably loathe most of them. But she needed to be more open-minded as well. Somewhere in the mix of idiotic boys that just wanted a higher social status was a boy who felt pressured just as much as she did. Somewhere in there was a boy who would probably allow her to live and do what she wanted, if only so he could do the same. Somewhere in there was a boy who was getting told this very same thing by his father or mother. Years ago, her mother had not planned on marrying her father. She had been betrothed to her father’s older brother and even then she had not loved him at first. She had not even known her father when they had been married, but she had done so because of her duty to her House and love for her family. It was a strength that few people stopped to consider, herself included.

Tywin stood up. “And Arya?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“The next time you bloody some lord’s son, have it be while you’re sparring, not in the middle of dinner.”

Arya smiled to herself as Lord Tywin walked back into the castle, leaving her still enveloped by his black cloak.

 


	4. Not in Blood, But in Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming betrothed is supposed to be a good thing, right? Maybe not for Arya.

Arya grimaced as her handmaiden put yet another pin in her hair. She’d lost count what felt like ages ago, pins upon pins in her long, dark brown hair, and even a few blue flowers as well. She hated it, of course, but kept her mouth shut. Today was supposed to be a special day. It would be the day that Lord Tywin announced her betrothal to… Oh, she didn’t know. Tywin had kept her informed on who her possible matches would be, but in the end, she had despondently told him that she did not want to know.

Another pin in her hair, this time pricking her scalp, and Arya jerked away, turning to glare heatedly at the handmaiden. “I think you’re finished.”

“But m’lady, your hair is not all–”

“No, I think it is.” Arya stood from her seat, took one look at her hair which looked more than finished to her, and then walked out of the room without so much as a dismissal. She knew it was rude and that the girl was only doing her job, but Arya was tired and frustrated and had spent her entire morning getting ready for an event she did not welcome. She didn’t care that the blue flowers in her hair matched perfectly with the blue gown she had been given or that she looked almost as nice as Sansa did on her bad days. All she wanted to do was run outside, ride her horse as fast as possible to loose her hair, play in the snow like a child though she was no longer one.

 _I am older than Robb ever was,_ she thought as she swept past the small council room that Lord Tywin used for the meetings.

Since she could not run off, she was fully planning on hiding in her mother’s bedchambers until the ceremony began. Surely Lady Catelyn would understand Arya’s pain. Her mother had been betrothed as well, and when her suitor had died, she had married a stranger, Arya’s own father. They were both dead now though, and her mother had been forced to marry a stranger yet again. That had been years though and while things were still strange and her mother still had bouts of sadness things were…warmer between husband and wife. There was even a baby now, a half-brother to Arya and this one not a bastard. Her mother would be able to give her the best advice and a nice hug.

Instead, Arya rounded the corner and bumped into something smaller than her, something that made a sound like, “Oomph!”

“Watch yourself! You could ruin my dress!” she snarled, despite not caring one lick about whether or not her dress was ruined. When she looked up at the offender (who was really the victim here), she was startled to find that it was not a handmaiden or a child but actually Tyrion Lannister, the Master of Coin and Lord Tywin’s second son. “Oh, I am sorry, my lord. I did not know it was you. Are you alright?”

“Not to worry, child,” Lord Tyrion sighed as he awkwardly stood up and brushed himself off, “worse things than a young girl have tried to kill me and failed. I’m quite alright.”

The nasty-looking scar on his face, complete with a bit of his nose missing, was proof enough of that, but Arya kept that to herself. It had scared her at first, seeing his face like that when she had first come to King’s Landing, but years had allowed her to grow used to it, to the point where she barely seemed to notice it at times no matter its size.

Tyrion eyed her. “Perhaps I should ask if you are alright, my lady. You look…distressed.”

“I’m just…excited, is all,” Arya replied, somewhat lamely.

 _What would Sansa do?_ was the reoccurring thought, more and more as her time in King’s Landing progressed. Sansa would know what to do; Sansa would know what to say. She had played all these people like a fiddle in the end. She had known all the right things to do when she had been betrothed and later married to Willas Tyrell. But thinking that did not help Arya one bit. She wasn’t Sansa. She was Arya Stark and Arya was no better at playing the game in King’s Landing than a dog was.

“Excited, yes, I’m sure,” Tyrion deadpanned. “Every girl dreams about the day she’s sold off like a cow.”

Arya scowled. “I’m not a cow.”

“Of course you’re not,” he said, a little smile on his face. “You’ve grown into a remarkably pretty young woman, most definitely not a cow. Boys will be lining up for you at the gate and fathers will greedily ask for you for their sons.”

Despite herself, despite everything in her, her face fell. “Only because I am a Stark and my step-father is the Hand of the King and a Lannister. I’m not much of a match for anyone’s son without my name.”

“You must look on the bright side, my lady.”

“And what’s that?”

“Why think of all the lovely children you’ll be forced to whelp!”

A smile broke out onto Arya’s face. It was an awful thing to think of – her worth only being her name and the amount of children she had – but the grand way in which Tyrion had said it, how he’d thrown his hands in the air and smiled almost gruesomely, brought the smile to her face. He had a fancy way of talking sometimes, almost as if he enjoyed irritating his father, but Arya loved it. Everything was transformed into a story by Tyrion Lannister and she loved listening to him talk, just as Sansa had loved hearing all the songs and stories about knights and maidens. But Lord Tyrion’s stories were dark and gritty and absolutely fascinating, nothing like the stories of her childhood. He never censored himself in front of her, except for when her mother and Lord Tywin were around, and then he would wink at her when neither were looking and whisper that he’d tell her more later.

“Fret not, Arya,” Tyrion told her. “I know you are worried – and you have every right to be – but rest assured my father will not force some terrible and idiotic lad on you. While he may care little for me, he does not want any harm to come to you. He is…fond of you.”

“Fond.” Arya snorted at the thought.

“If he wasn’t, you would have already been married off by now instead of just now being betrothed,” Tyrion explained. When she gave him a puzzled yet curious look, he shrugged his shoulders. “There is a reason he has been holding off, keeping you here. It makes your mother happy and it makes you happy and gods be good he seems to actually _like_ having you both happy.”

Arya chewed on her bottom lip and looked to the ground, thinking of all the times Tywin had said that she was not ready to be betrothed and that she needed more time. To do what, she’d never had a clue, perhaps mature or just grow up and get over herself. “I suppose…”

Tyrion pat her on the arm. “When all the hubbub is done, we’ll have a cup of wine to properly celebrate and drown out any sorrows you might have.”

Truth be told, she wanted the cup of wine now, to calm her nerves, but she knew that wouldn’t be the best thing to do. Her mother and Lord Tywin let her have a cup of wine every now and then, considering she was six and ten and quite old enough, but the only time she’d been drunk had been with Tyrion. She had been miserable and in an awful state after getting into an argument with her mother and Lord Tywin reprimanding her. Tyrion had shown up with a few sound words of advice and two skins of wine. By the end of the night, both of them had been drunk and laughing and made plans to go visit a whorehouse just to scandalize everyone.

They hadn’t done that yet. And perhaps they never would. That made her terribly sad again just thinking about it.

*

Lunch was, as usual, a disaster.

Whenever she looked down at her soup, Arya was almost certain that she could see her doomed future being spelled out by noodles, just as Thoros of Myr had seen the future in his flames. She could barely eat, stirring the spoon around and around, picking at the bread and then nibbling on it until she suddenly realized that the bread in her hand was gone. Someone had also thought it a good idea that all the noblewomen of the court eat lunch together so they could talk about the news of her betrothal. And the Queen – or former Queen – was there as well, sitting at the opposite end of the table, looking far too pleased with herself.

All in all, it was a typical lunch and absolutely horrendous.

“You must be so excited!” one girl gushed. She was a cousin to Maegary Tyrell, the youngest and only one to not be betrothed yet. She would be soon, just as all her cousins and other girls in Maegary’s court had been in the past few years, but she couldn’t seem to contain herself. “I’m ever so jealous.”

“You can have him then, whoever he is,” Arya replied jokingly, a grin on her lips. It was only partly a joke. If it were possible to give her betrothed away to this girl, she would have done it in a heartbeat.

“Arya, you should be thankful for the opportunity my father is giving you,” Cersei Lannister proclaimed as she sat back languidly in her seat. Even at her age, she looked stunning in her deep red gown. She was a queen to the bone. It did not stop Arya from shooting a tiny glare in the older woman’s direction. “You would never have had the prospects you have now before he took you in.”

“She is a child,” her mother cut in, polite yet blunt. There was a magical way her mother worked her words, a way that Arya could not comprehend but Sansa somehow had. She had hoped that she would learn this ability in time, during her many years in King’s Landing, if only to make things easier, but she did not. Perhaps it was something that people were born with and could not be taught or learned through practice. “Were you not frightened or nervous when you were betrothed to a stranger?”

“I was betrothed to a king,” Cersei pointed out, a smug smile on her face. It must have taken everything in Catelyn not to roll her eyes because it took everything in Arya not to throw her spoon at Cersei. “Besides, she should count herself lucky. If my father was not so…soft on her, she would already be married.”

There it was again – that concept of Tywin being soft and gentle and kind on her. But Lord Tywin Lannister was none of those things, certainly not to the sister of his dead enemy that he’d conspired to help murder.

Just like every other luncheon that had dissolved into a passive aggressive argument between Cersei and Catelyn, Maergary was there to smooth everything over with a lovely smile and a gentle hand on Arya’s. “There now, my dear,” she said, leaning in close to her, “it’s perfectly normal to be frightened about your betrothal. I certainly was. My father only wanted the best for me, a king, and he was determined to have it his way, one way or another. It made things rather difficult for me to adjust, but I did in time. Lord Tywin only wants the best for you; and he’s found it difficult himself to find you a good match.”

“He should have just married you off to a Frey,” Cersei said, waving a hand in the air.

“I’m not marrying a dirty Frey!” Arya snapped viciously.

“Nor would Lord Tywin force you to,” Catelyn interjected. “He would not have any Frey blood mixing with his own.”

At this, Cersei let out a little laugh, but there was an angry tint in her green eyes as they flicked over her. The disgust in them was enough to startle Arya, but she just kept her mouth shut. “Arya is not of his own blood.”

“She is his daughter by marriage now.”

“She isn’t a _Lannister_.”

“No, she is better than that,” Catelyn said in the coldest voice that Arya had ever heard come from her mother. “She is a Stark of Winterfell.”

The room went silent as Cersei and Catelyn glared at one another from across the table. Arya looked back and forth to both women while she could feel Maergary’s gaze on her. The other noblewomen in the room just sat awkwardly in their seats, staring down at their food. No one more than Arya wished they could be out of this room though. She felt hopeless in this fight, wanting desperately to stand up for herself and her mother but not knowing how. These fights and games were fought with words, something she’d always struggled with. Give her a sword and she could fight back better than any boy her age, but this was… This was different. She hated it. She’d rather beat someone over the head with a blunt object than subtle insults.

Finally, Cersei Lannister stood up from her seat. “Arya should consider herself grateful that she has been allowed so much freedom,” she said in a snarl. At this, she locked eyes with Arya, who refused to look away or blink. “I was not given so much leeway.” And then she swept out of the room furiously, a handful of noblewomen tittering after her.

*

_Edric Dayne._

The name was not so awful. And when he had taken her hand and kissed the top of it, she had not been horrified. He’d smiled, almost apologetically, reminding her when she had come across him all those years ago with the Brotherhood without Banners. Despite any “crimes” the little ragtag group of rebels may have done against the Lannisters, Ser Edric Dayne was still the Lord of Starfall. He had been graciously pardoned, with plenty of people reasoning that he had just been a boy doing his duty as a squire to his lord, as to be expected of him.

But the Daynes would always be a friend to the Iron Throne. They were famous for being tied with it so closely.

 _“I know I am not who you wanted,”_ he had said quietly in her ear as they danced, _“but I’ll be good to you, Arya. I promise.”_

She knew that he would keep his promise. Besides, it wasn’t even that he wasn’t who she wanted that made her so upset. It was that he wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want a husband. She didn’t want to be taken away from her mother. As much as she despised King’s Landing and the Red Keep and most of everyone in it, she was loathed to leave her mother behind on her own in this den of lions and smothering roses.

Ser Edric was good-intentioned, attractive even, and also had little choice in the matter – but none of that mattered to Arya as she furiously beat a blunt sword against a dummy in the training yard.

“You must put the fear into every dummy you come across,” a voice said from behind her.

Arya whipped around, wielding the blunt tourney sword in front of her, a wild look on her face, only to find Ser Jaime Lannister leaning against the archway. He was in the white armor of the Kingsguard, his remaining hand resting gently on the hilt of his sword. She straightened herself up, dropping the sword to her side and pushing her bangs out of her face. She’d managed to keep most of it pinned back all day until she’d stalked out here. Dimly, she realized that if she’d allowed the handmaiden to finish, it wouldn’t have even come undone during her fit of rage.

“I have to admit; I am intrigued,” Jaime started as he walked towards her. “Most girls wouldn’t react so…violently after being given such joyous news.”

“Joyous news,” Arya spit out mockingly. “Yes, because every girl dreams of the day she’ll be given to a rich man and taken away from her family and loses any freedom she could hope to hold onto and have a thousand children, any of which could kill her during childbirth.”

“Would you rather be a knight?” he asked her, stopping when he was only a few feet away from her.

“Yes,” Arya answered him.

In a flash, his sword was out and darting towards her, but she was able to parry it away with a smack of her sword and dodge to the left when he swung back at her. She knew that his right had been his sword hand, before it had been taken away from him right before his eyes, but he was fluid with his left after years of practice. Jaime Lannister was one of the most gifted men when it came to swordplay and while he was talented now, if she looked carefully, she could see the way he sometimes had to switch to left-handed stances and motions. The left hand always came more naturally to her though. Syrio had once mentioned how unique that made her, but he’d also taught her to practice with her right as well.

Jaime smirked. “Are you so certain of that?”

“Of course I am,” she snapped. “Being a knight would be infinitely better than being someone’s trophy wife.”

“Ah, so now you’re a trophy? You think highly of yourself.”

“You know what I mean–”

His sword came suddenly, swooping at her low and on the left, and would have knocked her clean off her feet had she not jumped at the last minute. A loud tear burst in her ears, letting her know that she’d torn her dress somehow, but she didn’t care. Instead, she was forced to fend off another attack, this time coming high and hard. She bent and slid so that the sword fell down and the weight and momentum carried him forward as well.

Jaime let out a laugh. “Nicely done.” There was no mocking tone to his voice to suggest that he was teasing her. She furrowed her brow at him, irritated and tired, but her blood was singing and she felt more alive and bright than she had in days. No one fought with her here, except for the new teacher from Braavos that Lord Tywin had found her a few months ago. He wasn’t Syrio, but he was someone. Everyone else just avoided her, especially other noblewomen. And boys were either too frightened that they’d get in trouble by sparing with her or that they might accidentally hurt her. Ser Jaime clearly cared not about either. “But you should think twice about wanting to be a knight. You think there’s freedom in being a knight, but there isn’t. There’s just as many vows to be taken in knighthood as there is in marriage. You lose yourself either way.”

This time, Arya did not wait for his attack. She leapt at him, feigning a right side attack and then going for the left. He stepped back quickly, evading the dull blade, as if he’d seen her coming from a mile away. “How would you know?” she demanded as she pressed him back, their swords kissing and singing in the air each time they touched. She could tell he was being gentle with her, which only angered her further, and she fought viciously. “How would you know anything about what it’s like to be a woman or to be married? You’ve never been married. You joined the Kingsguard when you were my age.”

“And I lost all my freedom and gained impossible vows at your age,” Jaime pointed out, digging his feet into the ground as their swords came together. He pushed against her, hard enough to send her reeling back from his weight and strength. She stumbled over her dress, nearly tripping, but managed to catch her balance. Had this been a real fight, she would have been dead right then had Jaime jumped on the chance to attack her. Instead, he held his ground, waiting for her, holding his sword up. “I married my duty and vows, not so much different from a man. They both fuck you in the end.”

“You killed the king,” Arya said, not unkindly. “You’re the one that fucked your vows.”

Jaime only smiled though. “I had other vows to keep that I deemed more important – and truth be told, I loved others more than I loved the king. The things we do for love aren’t always rational or even right. And I decided that love was more important than my honor so I besmirched it.”

Arya hesitated, the sword pointed towards him trembling, and then, she dropped the sword in the dirt. “I’m never going to love.”

“You don’t know that,” Jaime told her. “You may grow to love Ser Edric Dayne in time. He is a good lad – a better man than most. And it took my father a lot of time and patience to convince the Daynes of Starfall that you would be the best match for him.”

“And what if I’m not? What if I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”

“Oh, there was plenty of worry about that. You’ve got wolf blood in you; the North is too strong in you and makes you wild; even a few slanderous words about you having traitor’s blood, despite the Daynes’ own weak stance in the entire war…”

Arya didn’t know whether to feel furious or proud. She was glad to be of the North and quite proud to be a Stark, no matter what people whispered of her family in King’s Landing. She didn’t care. What did Southerners like the Daynes know about her or her family? They knew _nothing_.

“But I’ll let you in on a little secret, just between us,” Jaime added in a quieter voice. She strained to hear him, so she stepped closer to him, until she was close enough to his face that she could see flecks of gold in his green eyes, just like Lord Tywin’s and Cersei Lannister’s. “I think my father settled on Edric Dayne because he was the only one close to being good enough for you. I don’t think there’s a man in the world that my father thinks is truly a perfect match for you.”

“I don’t…” Arya shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You are unique,” Jaime told her as he stood up straight. “Maddening, frustrating, and terrible at any court games – but refreshing and honest and true. I think, somehow or another, you gave my father the chance to be the father he could not be to Cersei, Tyrion, or me, though he’ll go to his grave without admitting it.” He gave her a look that looked strangely endearing and even a little sad. “It drives Cersei up a wall, seeing the way he treats you and spoils you. He never did any of that with us, I can tell you.”

“Lord Tywin does not spoil me,” Arya said.

The smirk returned to his face. “It might not seem like spoiling to you, but take it from somehow who was raised by the man – he spoils you by giving you more freedom than what is expected of women. What do you think your dancing lessons are? An attempt to repay all the wrongs he has done to you and your family? He has no debts to repay you in his eyes.”

*

Ser Jaime had offered to walk her back to her bedchambers, but she’d waved him away, telling him that she could find her room on her own. While most would have protested and followed her anyways, he had merely shrugged his shoulders and let her go on her own. She was silently thankful to him, but hadn’t said it. The trip to her room was sullen and silent, except for the soles of her shoes smacking against the stone. Tears welled in her eyes as she hung her head, thinking more and more about how she would soon leave King’s Landing, just as Sansa had done right before her wedding. They’d had their wedding at Highgarden since Willas was the heir. No doubt Arya and Edric would have their wedding at Starfall.

Jaime’s words struck a chord with her though. She was angry and upset now, but maybe she would grow to love Edric in time, just as her mother had grown to love her father. At least she knew Edric somewhat. At least she knew that he had a good heart. She tried to think back to her time traveling with the Brotherhood, how polite and kind he had been. Gendry had hated him – only she didn’t think that Gendry had actually wished any ill-will towards him in the end. He’d just been jealous. Of what, Arya had no clue, perhaps of being left out since Arya and Edric had been highborn, making him feel like he was no good. But she had liked Edric well enough, even if he had called her “my lady” a thousand times.

And now that they were older, he had grown up. She’d noticed that when he’d first come to King’s Landing. He’d seen battles; he’d seen war; and he was wiser for that matter. He was also attractive. She hated admitting it, but she had caught herself looking at him more than once. It made her feel stupid. And he had a nice smile and let her lead conversations and listened to her. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he was the best husband she could hope for. Perhaps she could grow to love him.

But it still didn’t make her any less upset at the idea of leaving her mother behind.

Arya opened the door to her bedchambers, fully intent on throwing herself into her bed and hiding under her blankets and copious amounts of pillows, but came to a halt when she saw that she was not alone in her room. There standing before her were lady mother and her husband, Lord Tywin. She suddenly became conscious of how much of a mess she looked.

“Arya, where have you been?” her mother demanded as her eyes roved over her daughter, taking in the young girl’s appearance.

Though it didn’t help, Arya tried smoothing down her hair. “I…I was talking to Ser Jaime.” Well, it _was_ the truth, wasn’t it?

“You disappeared after the feast,” her mother said. “We were concerned.”

Guilt flashed through Arya for a moment. She hadn’t considered how suddenly leaving might make her mother feel. Of course she was worried about her youngest daughter. Arya had always fought the idea of being married one day. Now that it was coming to fruition, Catelyn surely was concerned over how Arya felt and handled the situation. Her mother was always so in tune with how her children felt. “Sorry, I just…” She didn’t have the words though – not any false words to make things look nice or pretty. All she had was how she felt. “I just needed some time to myself to think things over.”

“I’m always amazed at how your thinking manages to get you so messy and rumpled,” her mother sighed.

It occurred to Arya in that moment that Lord Tywin had not said a word yet. When she glanced at him, locking eyes, a signal seemed to burst into the air. Tywin looked away from her, catching her mother’s eyes for a brief moment, but it was all that was needed. Her mother nodded her head and walked towards Arya. The young girl froze as her mother kissed her on top of her forehead and then walked out of the room, leaving Arya alone with Tywin and letting silence descend over them the moment the door clicked shut.

“You handled yourself very well at the feast,” Tywin finally said. “It almost looked like you were happy.”

“I’m glad to have pleased you, my lord,” Arya replied in a flat tone, staring back at him.

His lips twisted for a moment. “I trust you will not muck this up. This betrothal and marriage is politically important.”

“Don’t worry, my lord. I’ll be the perfect little wife so everyone is happy and your political power remains strong and intact.” Arya did not want to feel hurt, told herself not to feel wounded in any way, but she could not help it. Try as she might, while she may not have trusted Tywin Lannister, she had thought… Well, he had told her that he wanted to find the perfect match for her. Now it just sounded as if he’d found her a match that was perfect for him. “It’s good to know that I’m just a piece in a game of cyvasse to you though.”

“You are not just a piece in a game, Arya,” Tywin told her. The force in his voice took her aback and she blinked at him. “This is important. _You_ are important. House Dayne has been tied to the Throne for centuries and is one of the most powerful Houses in Dorne, a country whose relationship with the Throne is shaky at best. I am _trusting_ you with this, trusting you to help me keep the peace.”

“House Dayne and House Stark aren’t exactly on friendly terms,” Arya pointed out. “My father killed Ser Edric’s uncle.”

“Worse has been done between Houses that have been brought together and made peace,” Tywin added. The marriage between Catelyn Stark and Tywin Lannister could be a test to that. No one had seen that coming, certainly not Arya, but somehow, the two had made it work, for better or for worse. She didn’t know how, but… Well, if her mother could do it, then so could she. She could be as strong as her mother. She _would_ be as strong as her mother. “And Ser Edric will let you grow in ways that most men would not. He is young and kind-hearted and, if I know you, he will be easy to sway. You’re more convincing and conniving than you think. Whether you believe me or not, I had your interests in mind to when I decided on this match.”

Arya thought on everything that had transpired over the day – all the surprises and shocks and scares and worries, everything that everyone had said, the hopeful look on her mother’s face, the hard one on Tywin’s, the apologetic look on Tyrion’s, the angry look on Cersei’s, and Jaime’s smiling face. It all made her head spin. And she knew, she knew then: that perhaps she knew nothing at all about the people she’d been surrounded by for the past few years. Something had changed between her and them, something big and vague and terrifying, but she couldn’t pinpoint when or what.

Except that they felt strangely like…family.


	5. What Dreams May Come

It was in the middle of the night and she definitely shouldn’t have been out here, but Arya didn’t think she could go back to sleep if she wanted. Nightmares had been chasing her as of late, startling her awake in the middle of the night and making her leery of her bed. She would be the last person to admit that she was afraid of something, especially when that something was as harmless as sleep, but she hadn’t enjoyed a good night’s rest in a long time. Where were the wolf dreams? Those were at least comforting and familiar; she missed them.

There was nothing like that here in King’s Landing, even worse in the Red Keep. Everywhere she went, she was haunted by memories. She was almost certain that she had seen a ghost a time or two. At this point though, she would take a ghost if it meant seeing someone that she loved. Her father had died here, along with Septa Mordane and Jory Cassel. But they weren’t here anymore while she was left to walk the same halls they once did under the roof of the very men and women that had plotted their deaths.

The nightmare was about them. She dreamed of them crawling out from their graves, finding her in the Red Keep, pulling at her hair and clothes, demanding answers from her. Why wasn’t she avenging them? Why wasn’t she fighting for justice? Why was she alive to eat nice food and wear pretty dresses? She was living with monsters and she was doing nothing about it.

_ “Have you forgotten me?” _ her father’s rotting corpse would ask. _ “Have you replaced me so easily?” _

_ “Never, Father, never!”  _ Arya would shout, even as she pushed herself away from him, pressing herself against a wall as his fingers grazed against her red and gold dress.

_ “Are you a wolf any longer - or have you forsaken us and turned into a lion?” _

Even as Arya howled in denial, even as she tried to explain that she would always be a Stark of Winterfell, she would turn away from him and catch sight of her reflection. The crimson dress fit her beautifully, trimmed in gold and with golden patterns. Her eyes were always green in the dream. And she would scream.

Those were the kind of dreams that kept her up late at night and had her gasping for air early in the morning. Just thinking about it made her feel sick as she wandered through the castle. She wasn’t a lion and her eyes were grey as they had been since she was born. But there were days when she didn’t feel like a wolf either. She felt...out of place, like maybe she was a wolf, but she had been taken out of the wild and tamed. Maybe that was why the wolf dreams hadn’t come to her in a while.

How could she possibly explain herself to her father’s ghost when she could barely figure it out herself? She couldn’t rightly call herself a hostage, not anymore. Her mother was once more married to the Hand of the King. By her own choice or out of duty, Arya could not say, except that it had been this way for over three years now. She couldn’t be called a ward or hostage to the Lannisters when her mother was one by marriage. What would her father say to that? Arya could not help but wonder if her mother had nightmares of her late husband accusing her of betrayal as well.

Barefoot and in a nightgown, covered up with only a thin robe, Arya found herself in the small godswood where Sansa proclaimed only to have felt peace in King’s Landing. It was nothing like the godswood at Winterfell, but the single white weirwood tree made Arya’s soul ache. Brown and red leaves crunched under her feet as she walked towards the tree so that she could place a hand on the trunk. It felt like home, but not at the same time. It was out of place too. The old gods did not belong in the South. Maybe that was why so many awful things had happened to them?

The clinking sound of armor caught Arya’s attention and she whipped around the identify the source. No doubt she would be dragged back to her bedroom if she was found and most likely scolded the next day for being out in such a state of dress. Most of the goldcloaks were in somebody’s pocket and any of her business was relayed to a number of sources. Her mother’s husband always seemed to know what she was up to throughout the day.

Better any of them than one of the Whitecloaks though. Arya had no love for most of them, after she learned of what they had done to Sansa under Joffrey’s orders. She didn’t care if most of them were new; she still hated them. Knights were supposed to protect the innocent, not hurt them. They didn’t deserve their swords, much less their cloaks.

When she realized the person was walking towards her, Arya did the only thing she could think to do: she scampered up the weirwood tree to hide. Some people might frown upon that, but the old gods weren’t like the new gods in the Faith. They wouldn’t be mad at her for climbing the weirwood. Back in Winterfell, when she was little, Jon had taught her how to climb in the godswood. Of course, she was fourteen now, a young lady and no longer a child, so climbing a tree might not look as appropriate, but Arya still had difficulties with being proper.

Once hidden in the tree, Arya stilled herself and held her breath. Hopefully, whoever it was hadn’t heard her rustling in the tree and would move along if they didn’t see anyone. No one came to the godswood but her and her mother anyways, even though her mother was more in tune with the Faith. She watched from her viewpoint as a goldcloak appeared and walked past the godswood without even glancing inside. Arya breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be found out and hauled away.  The goldcloaks were none too gentle with her, claiming she was wild and unruly (which, in all fairness, was probably true), and seemed to enjoy seeing her punished.

“A bit of a strange time to be climbing trees, don’t you think?” a voice asked from down below.

Arya started, her feet slipping on the branch, and let out a yelp when she nearly fell out of the tree. Instead, she managed to catch herself, knocking the wind of herself as she slammed into a larger branch and gripping another one tightly. After she regained her footing and balance, she jerked her head to look back, only to see Jaime Lannister leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest. He was holding his arms so that neither of his hands were visible. Hand - he only had one true hand, the other a golden farce.

“You aren’t wearing any armor,” Arya told him accusingly.

Jaime smirked. “An astounding observation.”

That was why she hadn’t heard him. She had been too focused on the goldcloak to notice another person coming up from behind her. She imagined that Syrio Forrel would have berated her for being so oblivious and ignoring the world around her, but she could barely conjure his voice anymore.

Scowling, Arya grumbled under her breath as she climbed out of the tree. It was a lot more awkward than climbing up it. Dresses, even nightgowns, weren’t made for tree climbing. By the time she was back on the ground, her robe was out of sorts and a few leaves stuck out of her hair. Her mother would be horrified at the sight of her, her lord husband probably exasperated. Honestly, Arya was trying to be more of a lady now, for her mother’s sake, but it was so hard sometimes and she got so tired. She just wanted her mother to be happy, but it made her less happy.

“What were you doing up there anyways?” Jaime asked.

“Hiding from nosy bastards,” Arya told him flatly.

Instead of getting angry and correcting her for her insolent behavior, Jaime barked out a laugh. He was a strange man. Whenever she acted out of line, he didn’t bother trying to fix her or tell her off. He didn’t tell her that she needed to be a proper lady or to work on her etiquette; he didn’t sneer at her when she tripped over the hemline of her dress; he didn’t pick at her or point out her flaws; he didn’t remind her that it would not be long before her mother’s lord husband betrothed her. He always laughed if she made an off color comment and would roll his eyes whenever the Queen Regent, his twin sister, snipped at or chided her.

Most importantly though, Jaime never told her to leave whenever she would sit and watch him practice swords. It had been three years since his sword hand had been cut from him, but the sword had been an extension of his right hand, not his left, and so he was forced to learn it again. He was a far better swordsman than most, but with only three years of practice, he was not nearly as good as he had been before. It must have frustrated him greatly - to have all that knowledge in his mind and have to relearn the language with his left hand.

Arya would sit to the side, a forgotten stitching in her hands. She brought it to pretend like she was working on it instead of watching Jaime practice. He had a different type of style than the water dancing she was taught, but he was fluid and skillful. He was an aggressive swordsman, doing his best to not give any of his opponents time to breathe. She could see why he had been allowed to join the Whitecloaks at such a young age, even if he wasn’t as good as back then yet.

“Well, that’s one place most of the little birds around here wouldn’t think to check,” Jaime said, referring to the many spies that worked in the Red Keep. Whether the nosy, little gits were in Cersei’s pocket, Margaery’s, or even the great Tywin Lannister’s, all of them were an annoyance. Arya would not doubt that her mother had gained one or two in the time since she had been brought to King’s Landing and later married Tywin. She was good at this game, even if she acted like she didn’t want or like to play. She did it to protect Arya.

“What are you doing here?” Arya demanded. This was her place. No Southerner had a right to the godswood. It was of the North, like her. Mostly though, she was embarrassed about getting caught and almost falling out of the tree.

Jaime shrugged his shoulders. “I could not sleep.”

“So you think to wander around and frighten the first person you find?”

“I thought nothing frightened you,” Jaime pointed out.

“I wasn’t!” Arya denied hotly, her cheeks turning pink. Jaime gave her a disbelieving look, that smirk playing at his mouth again. She folded her arms across her chest and glowered back at him. She hadn’t been frightened by him, merely caught off guard. There was a difference. “Are you going to escort me back to my bedchambers?”

“I’m more than certain you can find them yourself,” Jaime responded. “Besides, I’m off duty.”

Arya eyed him, but didn’t move to uncross her arms. His reputation said that he was not a trustworthy person. He had fought against Robb and lost, killed the Mad King he was supposed to be protecting, watched as her grandfather and uncle had been murdered. And yet he also would toss a sweet her way after Cersei made a snide comment about Arya gaining weight and didn’t tattle on her to her mother or his father if he caught her playing with swords. There were times when she didn’t really know what to think of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“But it is late and you should be getting to bed if you plan on waking early.”

Arya furrowed her brow in confusion. “What for?”

“Your lessons, of course,” Jaime answered, like she should’ve known exactly what he was talking about. Arya didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t have to wake up early for her lessons. Her dancing lessons weren’t until the afternoon and she wasn’t do to see the Septa tomorrow. “I think it’s high time that you step off from the sidelines and learn how to fight like a Westerosi. You can’t do that from just watching. A lady should know how to defend herself.”

Unable to contain herself, Arya’s heart jumped, even though she knew it was futile to get hopeful. “But Lady Catelyn and Lord Tywin-”

“Don’t have to know,” Jaime interrupted.

Arya bit her lip. Excited as she was over the mere idea of getting to train with swords for real, Arya felt a spark of hesitancy. She did not want to be picky, especially about something she loved and was truly good at, but she could not be as strong as her mother. She could not control her emotions so well.  “I don’t want to train with Ser Ilyn Payne.”

He’d killed her father with his sword Ice. She could not train with him. The thought made her feel sick. She would rather not train at all.

Though he hadn’t been there to witness it himself, Jaime knew of the circumstances. He considered her words for a moment before nodding his head. “Then I’ll train you. It’ll be good practice to look at it from a different viewpoint.”

A tremulous smile appeared on Arya’s face. It would feel so good to have a sword in her hands again and do more than pretend. She would feel at peace and perhaps more like herself. Maybe she would feel like a wolf again once she regained a piece of who she was. She bid Jaime a good night, forgetting to thank him, and turned to walk back to her bedchambers. The entire walk was a blur as she was lost in thought about the upcoming day. Playing with swords wasn’t ladylike, but she wouldn’t be playing. When she laid in bed, though she was excited, sleep found her quickly and the wolf dream came to her once more.


End file.
